


Multitasking

by Argyle



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-12
Updated: 2008-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are in the blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Multitasking

So what's the big deal? Gene can drive and eat, flash his warrant and observe a scene, tip the ash off a fag end and throw a kidney-punch. He can lay down four of a kind and glare long and hard across the card table at Sam, who's finagled a straight flush. Smug bastard can't even keep the thrill off his face, but his skin is more ruddy from the beer (seven pints) than from the hand (he'd won the preceding three).

Skelton meanwhile's looking green around the gills, and DC Zimmer's sliding back from the table with a mumbled, "I'm out."

Sam blinks. Then he checks his watch. "Shit. Gotta get home."

"Afraid you'll get behind on your knitting?" Gene sniffs and begins shuffling the deck, but doesn't wait for a retort. "Come on. I'll drive you."

By the time Gene pulls on his gloves and yanks back the door bolt, Sam's slid up behind him, stealth-like, but takes a long moment then to set a few tidy pound notes on the bar. "'Night, Nelson," he calls, and makes it halfway to the kerb before Gene stops him.

"Get your coat, Tyler."

"Thanks, mum."

Gene tilts his head up, clenches in a fist, and holds it. Holds it until Sam's back outside, shrugging into his jacket. Holds it as they walk to the station carpark, but then decides it'd be no use to set Sam puking on the upholstery. Instead, Gene lights a cigarette and concentrates on revving the Cortina's motor. He shifts and flicks the headlights on, then laments both his lightened wallet and the fact that he'd drunk too much to quit stealing glances at Sam's exposed throat, but not enough to demand a kip at his.

And Sam is still. Sam breathes in and out, slowly, like he was born to it. Thing is, Gene knows he'll be reeling come morning, wretched and angry when he makes it into CID. Gene won't bother to listen, or not really. Certainly won't _act_ like he's heard. He'll be too busy shaving, maybe glancing over a case file and pouring himself a breakfast double.

Sam'll burst a vessel when Gene sends him out with Ray. Really, it'll be too much.

In the lull, Gene might get a little sleep, stare at his trophies for a while, and thumb through the crisp hardback he had Phyllis bring in: pattern-analysis photos first, the erythrocytes arranged like Christmas lights. Then, the next time Sam mentions high velocity impact splatters, Gene will lend a succinct word or two and get back to determinedly not looking at the stretch of leather over Sam's shoulders as he's bent over stained pavement.

Easy as a Dutch prozzie, this multitasking lark: some things are in the blood.


End file.
